Wolfsblood
by SevRez
Summary: The King of Winter is his father's son, certainly. But perhaps Robb has a bit of his uncle in him as well, a trace of Brandon the Wild Wolf. Perhaps there is more than ice in his veins. A fire that makes his blood boil, his bones ache, that makes him thirst for blood and vengeance... and perhaps women as well. The King in the North means to take justice... and maybe more
1. Chapter 1

_So, I love the ASOIAF books. I love the HBO adaptation. Really, I do. I love all of it, the triumph and sadness, I love it all in equal measure. Hell, I know that GRRM disapproves of fanfiction – though, I do think that's a bit hypocritical coming from him since that's how he got started: writing stories about comic book characters. _

_However, in my heart I know I'm a House Stark fanboy through and through. I wanted Robb to win so badly and George crushed that. I love the fact that he did that by the way, since that was one hell of a twist. But, I'm still an optimist. _

_Robb was a badass and really the bee's knees in my opinion. I wrote this as a bit of a wank piece to be honest, exemplifying how awesome the Stark men are what with the wolfsblood and all. _

_So, yeah. Wish-fulfillment, basically. Robb Stark fucks people up and gets laid by all the lovely ladies in the Kingdoms. That's what you can expect here. Though, that does not mean I won't try to write in the best way I can. I've got standards people._

_I've also got some similar stories planned for other fandoms, specifically Mass Effect. They're all in the same vein as this one: badass good guy kills baddies and bed beautiful women, both alien and human. Should be fun, so keep your eyes peeled for those._

_Enough about me, then. Read away._

**]|||[**

_Only two kings left now_, Margaery Tyrell mused.

Her soft brown eyes roamed across the dimly lit room. _Maegor's holdfast, the safest place in King's Landing_. Or at least that was what she was told. Noble ladies and their daughters, handmaidens and children, the old and sickly, all huddled together in the dark, candlelight dancing amongst the shadows. Some were crying, young girls and some older, whilst others prayed, whispering to the seven for salvation… but a few could be heard calling upon the old gods, the tree spirits that the Young Wolf knelt to.

It made a bit of sense, truly. Margaery knew well what went through their heads. The Stark boy may very well be the new king by the end of the night. Why not pray to his gods? The seven could not stand against him.

The queen and her children were notably absent, having left the holdfast some time ago.

_Two kings… one – my betrothed – cowers behind his mother's skirts and the other rams at the city gates. _

Renly Baratheon was dead, slain by a shadow that took the shape of a man. That, or it was Brienne of Tarth, the woman who wanted to be a man, the woman Renly graciously allowed on his rainbow guard. Or mayhaps it was not the Tarth girl. Mayhaps it was Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, as some knights had claimed. Mayhaps it was Stannis, Renly's older brother, the supposed true heir to the Iron Throne.

If it was Stannis who murdered Renly, it no longer mattered. Stannis had also met his end, cut down just inside the city gates during the great battle of the Blackwater. He and his men fought bravely and _viciously_ to the bitter end. Lannister and Tyrell forces won that day, but not before losing a man or more for every Baratheon sword. The might of the Stormlands had been stamped out, or at least most of it had. What men that survived the arrival of Lord Tywin's cavalry slipped away, heading north.

Balon Greyjoy, the King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, had fallen off his castle, swallowed up by the very waters that supposedly birthed him, lost to the salt and rock he worshipped so dearly.

The Dragon Queen, Daenerys the Unburnt, had last been spotted heading towards the great city of Qarth, far, far away from the Seven Kingdoms she was said to covet.

"Only the Young Wolf remains," Joffrey had told her with a wicked smile, his small green eyes bright with glee and hatred. "I'll smash him like I smashed Stannis, my lady, and on our wedding day my gift to you will be a fine wolfs pelt. I will give Lady Sansa a gift as well I suppose… Her brother's head perhaps." He had laughed then and so had Margaery, though it shamed her to do so.

That was a fortnight ago, back when the capitol had first received news of Robb Stark marching south with his army of northmen… as well as some twenty thousand swords from the Vale and the Riverlands, in addition to the remaining men from Lord Stannis' army. Now, the King of Winter was on Joffrey's doorstep, with the might of justice at his back. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, they all lost someone to the Lions of Casterly Rock. _Women are the gentler sex_, Margaery's parents had taught her, _but men have need of vengeance._

Noble Lord Eddard Stark lost his head on Joffrey's order. His son, Robb, sought to return the favor. And the men following him would all rather brave the deepest of the seven hells than allow a bastard born of incest to sit the throne.

_Should the Young Wolf claim victory, my betrothed will be executed. That is for certain_, the Rose of Highgarden realized then, her heart beating faster. A mother shushed her weeping child a short distance away, all while the fool, Dontos, tried and failed to juggle apples. _And what will become of me? Of my family? If we lose…_

The Starks of Winterfell were an honorable bunch, yes, but they were cold, hard. Unyielding as the lands they were born to, her brother Garlan had once told her. Some of the smallfolk believed the Starks had ice in their veins rather than blood.

_If this King in the North takes the city, Joffrey will be nothing but a bastard born from the loins of the Kingslayer,_ Margaery breathed deeply, eyes darting from her handmaidens to the door. She still smiled though, for she needed to remain strong. Only tall gaunt Ser Ilyn Payne guarded them, hard eyes staring straight ahead, a greatsword slung sheathed across his back. _And I will have been betrothed to a bastard king. I will have consorted with a pretender…_

Much to her own surprise, Margaery Tyrell found herself genuinely praying. For the safety of her family… and for merciful conquerors.

**]|||[**

Men were screaming. All around, there were the cries of the dying. There was fire and smoke, thick and hot and black as it was. Orange and crimson snapped at the stars above, while beneath it all the world burned black.

There was the ringing of steel and iron, echoing across the battlefield. And the smell of blood and flesh and the loosened bowels of dead men, but all of that could barely be noticed past the smoke. Robb Stark was shocked to find that he loved it.

His blood was singing to him, his bones as well. His body, all of it, trembling almost. He felt a fire inside him, a stirring deep in his gut when he sunk his blade into another Lannister soldier. He drove it deep into the man's soft belly, and twisted. The Young Wolf wretched the blade free, spilling blood across the ground. The dirt drank it up.

Some distance away, Robb could feel his direwolf, his Grey Wind, end another man. Somehow, he could taste the blood on his lips. It was sweet. Robb smiled at that.

Another enemy spearman charged at him then. But Robb saw him, or perhaps Grey Wind had. It didn't matter. Robb cut down the man – no, _boy_ – a boy no older than himself. Robb cut him down like all the rest that came before. _Lions_, a voice growls, _all of them, lions. Treacherous lions!_ A slash across the boy's belly and innards spilled out like eels. Another slash across the boy's back when he spun. The spearman fell into a bloody heap.

Grey Wind howled.

Robb saw the moon. The smoke from the fires had yet to blacken the night sky, but the moon…

The moon was red, much the like the comet across the stars. The Young Wolf of Winterfell, Eddard's son, called out to it, his sword raised. It is a wordless cry.

The old gods, his ancestors, Robb could feel them. They were watching, looking down from the heavens. They were with him on the battlefield, every time he put a sword through a lion's gut. They were with Grey Wind, every time he opened a man's throat. They were in his blood, the strength of over a thousand years of Starks flowing throughout his body. Father, Uncle Brandon, Grandfather Rickard, Cregan Stark who fought Aemon the Dragonknight, Rodrik Stark who won Bear Island from the Ironborn, and Theon Stark the Hungry Wolf. He could hear their whispers at his ear. The Starks that came before, they urged him forward, onward to take more and _more_.

It had been like that since the Oxcross, or seven hells, perhaps the _Whispering Wood_. It was not something any normal man experienced, Robb was sure of that. No, this was a thirst for blood. _Lannister_ blood. Each victory on the field, each man he cut down, they filled Robb with a warmth, a joy he had scarcely known before. Joy and pride.

_Yes, a thirst… and a hunger. A Stark's hunger…_

The Crag had not been a challenge. He took the castle from the Westerlings with ease, an utter victory if there ever was one. And Robb had been _disappointed_. The young maid of Westerling, Jeyne her name was, she treated Robb well enough and tended to his arrow wound with more courtesy than a conquered House had any obligation to give. But… Robb's thirst had not been quenched. He wanted – no, _needed_ more.

So Robb marched on Casterly Rock soon after. Tywin had made for King's Landing with the majority of his forces, leaving the Lion's den ripe to be claimed. The wolves would take Tywin's gold, his home, his power.

Along the way, Dacey Mormont, one of his own guard, had come to his bed. He had never asked anything of her, not in that way, but she came to him all the same, and quite eagerly too. It had been quite the sight, seeing tough, hardened Dacey Mormont, the she-bear, standing before him as naked as she was on her nameday, giving him those doe-eyed looks he thought to receive from the more "proper" noble ladies.

Robb found that he could not refuse her. Nor did he want to, once her sleeping gown pooled around her ankles. The wolf had lost himself then, no longer Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. He was just the Young Wolf, young and _hungry_. He took the she-bear, frantically if he was to be completely honest, his mouth attacking her neck, her breasts, lower and lower until he reached her pink. Sweet, warm pink resting just _there_ between her legs. He tasted her and later drank from her, when she was writhing under his tongue.

"_Robb!"_ She cried, fingers digging into the dark curls of his hair, _"Oh, Robb!"_

Dacey was an older woman and Robb was barely a man grown. Ten and six he was, but she was willing enough and so very sweet. And soft. And warm as well. It was enough to satisfy his hunger.

…For a while at least. Fighting, killing, hunting. Robb found that these things placated his urges almost as well as a woman did.

_Now…_

Now he was here. King's Landing. The final battle, should the gods be good.

_Joffrey is here._

Robb could smell the bastard king, the pretender. He could smell his cowardice. The Wolf of Winterfell yearned for the Bastard of Lannister's blood.

He could hear the Greatjon in the distance, bellowing the war cry of the north, "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

The other northmen followed suit as did the Riverlords and the Vale knights and those who had followed Stannis before turning to Robb, crying to the stars for Eddard, for Robert, for Winterfell, for Tully and Riverrun, for justice and their beloved Lord Jon Arryn.

"_The King in the North!"_

"_The King in the North"_

"_THE KING IN THE NORTH!"_

Grey Wind was howling again.

Robb breathed. His heart, his bones, they ached. It was a good ache. He could see the Red Keep from where he stood, towering above the rest of the capitol. There, his father's murderer waited for him. There, justice waited for him.

He was a Stark of Winterfell. He was of the North. He was of the wolfsblood.

He was going to win. For his father. For Robert. For all the rest.

_I'm coming for you, bastard._

**]|||[**

_I also love the Mannis. Killing him off was the worst part of writing this, but it needed to be done. I needed to make sure no one stood in the way of the Young Wolf. So, sorry about that._

_Baratheon/Seaworth 2015! GET HYPE!_


	2. Chapter 2

_The wank continues…_

**]|||[**

The sun was up, shining brighter than it ever had. The courtyard of the Red Keep was bustling with activity, soldiers going this way and that way, somehow not running into one another. Margaery could see them from the window of her solar, high above them. The men carried banners of all kinds, billowing bolts of cloth that proudly displayed bears, giants in broken chains, moons and falcons, black stags, even what Lady Tyrell believed to be an onion.

But the banner that flew above them all, high in the air against the bluest sky Margaery had ever seen, was a fierce direwolf, snarling.

Robb Stark had taken Kings Landing, rather swiftly in fact.

The Manderlys had swept in from the east by surprise, right through the blackwater. No one thought the Young Wolf to have any sort of fleet. But the Lord of White Harbor, Sir Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse as they called him, had sailed to Braavos and convinced a good amount of unsavory sell-sword captains to come to their aid, undoubtedly promising them riches beyond measure from the capitol of Westeros. That, and the northern fleet knew better than to fall for the dwarf's wildfire trick as Stannis had.

Meanwhile, The King in the North charged the walls of the city alongside his army, attacking several of the gates at once. The Knights of the Vale, the Remnants of Stannis' Army, and the combined remnants of the North and the Riverlands, all at once. A shrewd man was Tywin Lannister, but even the Great Lion of Casterly Rock could not withstand such an assault. _Especially when his precious Rock was sacked by the Wolf King. _

Some said that Lord Tywin fell on the field of battle along with those who chose to gallantly meet the Young Wolf outside the city gates. Others said he was captured and was now being held in the dungeons with his daughter and grandson.

_His grandson… Joffrey…_ Margaery snorted contemptuously at the thought of the boy king.

Joffrey Baratheon – or was it "Hill" now? – had been caught attempting to flee the capitol _in women's clothes!_ "If that is not enough to prove that he's not a true Baratheon, I don't know what is", one bold maid had said. Margaery was well to agree with her. King Robert would rather have been drawn and quartered than flee, and Stannis… Stannis was not known for surrendering Storm's End when it came under siege. Even Renly at least followed his host wherever they went.

Joffrey… Joffrey was probably whimpering in the dark right then, or mayhaps he was screaming to be released from his chains. _As if demanding like he always does will save him._

Margaery turned from her window, retreating back into her solar. The Rose of Highgarden had been fortunate, for the Young Wolf had simply confined her to her apartment while he went about settling issues around the capitol – and possibly the Realm as well – in the aftermath of his victory. _A battle for the songs it was, truly…_

Even as she sat on the losing side of a civil war, imprisoned in her own room, Margaery could not feel quite so unhappy. The previous night, she had prayed and prayed, to the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, Maiden, Stranger, Crone, the whole lot of them. She prayed for merciful conquerors, for the safety of her family, for anything but execution for being "traitors" to this Wolf King who could turn into a snaring beast whenever he liked and drank the blood of the slain and worshipped trees that had faces.

To her joy, her prayers were answered well. Her brother Loras, ever the knight, had chosen to meet Robb Stark along with Lord Tywin and the Mountain. Where the brutish Ser Gregor had been slain – the most popular rumor being that he was ripped apart by a pack of wolves – The Knight of the Flowers had simply been knocked from his horse by one of the Stark bannermen. Lord Jon Umber had taken him captive, for which Margaery was beyond grateful. Apparently, the northmen had more sense than the Southron lords gave them credit for. A Tyrell son was a valuable prisoner for certain, more so than Lannister Lord who refused to surrender. Her father and grandmother, Lady Redwyne, her brothers Willas and Garlan, they shared similar circumstances with Margaery herself, confined to their chambers.

Despite it all, Margaery felt at least _something_ in the way of comfort. Loras' pride was what faced the worst of Robb Stark's wrath. Her family was safe, alive. At least at the moment. And that was enough for her.

Her room was a nice enough prison, Margaery believed, certainly better than whatever dungeon they kept the enemies of Stark in. They let her handmaidens stay with her at least. Myranda and Bethany were gossiping as if the siege hadn't just occurred the previous night. Margaery ignored them, her thoughts elsewhere.

Come tomorrow, the Young Wolf would begin his distribution of justice.

**]|||[**

_This is where Father died. This is where he was murdered._

Robb Stark stood tall at the top of the steps that led to the Great Sept of Baelor. It was a warm day, such as the South was, the sun shining bright with nary a cloud in sight. It was a holy place where he stood, supposedly. Where the seven dwelled beside man, where their presence could be felt by those who followed them.

Joffrey the pretender was nearby on his knees. He was still wearing the dress he tried to flee in, his sister's if the rumors were true.

Below him, the people gathered, smallfolk and highborn alike, all coming to witness justice be given. A bead of sweat slid down the back of Robb's neck. He wore dark leathers and a billowing grey cloak, fastened with a silver wolfs-head pin. They were the lightest clothes he could find. It was either that or to drape silks and velvets about himself like some perfumed Southron Lord.

Robb never felt more like a stranger. _These are not my people, nor are these seven my gods. This is not my home._

And yet the commoners who came to see the Son of Winterfell avenge his kin, the same people who had been starving under the reign of the Bastard Joffrey, they welcomed him with open arms.

"Robb! Robb! King Robb!" They cheered. "King in the North!" The Greatjon bellowed, the smallfolk happily joining him.

_Why cheer for me? I've brought no food, only justice._

On his trip from the Red Keep to the Sept, Robb had witnessed a lanky man shouting before a small crowd, proclaiming the Young Wolf a liberator, a savior come to save their beloved Margaery Tyrell from the clutched of the Rotten King, come to save the smallfolk from the cruel Lioness who bedded her own brother.

Before, when he was but Robb Stark the boy, he would have smiled at that. But in truth, Robb came south to kill Joffrey. Robb Stark the boy was dead. The war killed him. The Whispering Wood killed him, as did the Crag and Casterly Rock. Gods, he may have died the moment he left behind Winterfell and Bran and baby Rickon. Now, he was King Robb, the Young Wolf who ruled the North and the Riverlands… as well as the South now, apparently.

Robb stood over Joffrey the pretender then, stone-faced as his father was when Lord Eddard brought justice to deserters and oathbreakers. He turned away from the boy who was more weasel than lion, facing the crowd. He said some words, in a voice that thundered out over the people below, a strong voice, his voice. But he was beyond himself, somehow. He could feel his heart beating, hammering against his chest, his blood singing to him like it had last night and it was the sweetest song there ever was.

_Vengeance._

The whispers had returned, faint voices at the back of his mind that seemed to be carried off by the wind as quickly as they came. The crowd was both cheering and booing, some throwing rocks at Joffrey. The bastard of Lannister seemed to be whimpering.

_Justice._

Olyvar Frey came forward, holding a familiar wolfskin Scabbard out towards him.

_Ice…_

Robb gripped the handle of his Family's ancestral greatsword and pulled it free. It gleamed in the light, valyrian steel thirsty for blood. It was lighter than Robb remembered, not at all cumbersome to hold despite being a five-foot blade as wide as his hand.

…_and Blood._

Joffrey was screaming now. At the crowd. At Robb, cursing him.

_Shut him up_, a voice urged in Robb's head. His own thought, mayhaps…

Robb did so. He brought Ice up, the blade shimmering as the sun danced upon it, humming low and sweet as it sliced through the air, arcing down. A flash of steel and a spray of red. Nothing held an edge quite like valyrian steel.

A head rolled by the feet of Robb's Bannermen. Theon Greyjoy kicked it away, smiling.

Robb smiled then. It was a small grin that was easy to hide, but it was still a smile. He felt good, satisfied, fulfilled. Grey Wind howled, yet there was no moon in the sky. Only the sun, shining.

But just as he felt satisfied, the Young Wolf felt a hunger. A thirst for justice, for more blood.

The Lion queen was next.

When she was brought before him, she was deathly quiet. No fear, nor remorse. Even the sight of her son's blood staining the sept brought nothing out.

That made Robb angry.

Steel. Red. Cheering.

There was the satisfaction again, now along with pride as the cheering crowd ignited something inside Robb. But the hunger remained. He needed more… something that made him yearn…

The Imp and some of the others that were captured, Ser Loras and Ser Kevan along with his boys Martyn and Willem, Robb was reluctant to kill them. They had surrendered when the city fell. The Kingslayer remained at Riverrun with Lord Edmure and until he arrived for his sentencing, there was little left for Robb to do. Robb knew in his mind that he would not let himself become another Aerys, executing everyone he deemed a threat.

Myrcella and Tommen were bastards like Joffrey, but Robb knew them to be innocent. Tommen was only a boy and Myrcella… when Robb took the Rock, he found that Cersei had sent her daughter there for her own safety. The girl had been especially sweet to him even after he had conquered her keep. In a way, she had been much like Lady Jeyne Westerling, doe-eyed with soft golden hair falling over bare shoulders in a dress that was in no way practical for a prisoner to be wearing…

Later that evening, Robb had supper and still retired to bed hungry. He had a thirst, an unnatural thirst, as Grey Wind did. Restless. Tense. The whispers were there again, but these were not the voices of his ancestors or the old gods. No, they were the words of Robb himself, from a side of him that had been kept deep in his heart, dormant until recently, unleashed when he whet his blade with Lannister blood.

He heard his father speak of things like this. His Uncle Brandon had it, as did many Starks that came before.

The true Stark blood. The wolfsblood.

Robb slept that night, if only barely. But when he did, he dreamt of Dacey Mormont. Of Jeyne Westerling and Myrcella Baratheon – _or was it "Hill"_? He dreamt of soft, warm skin that shuddered beneath his hands, of sweet voices that graced his ears, their moans and whimpers. He dreamt of golden hair and brown hair and black hair, tumbling down their backs, a wild mane or soft curls. He dreamt of their gentle touch, their hands on his chest, his shoulders, their nails at his back. He dreamt of small yet supple breasts that fit his hand perfectly.

But most of all, Robb dreamt of their warm, wet cunts and how they felt around his cock.

The following morning, The Young Wolf found that he was even hungrier than before. Grew Wind, however, was found in the kennels, looking particularly satisfied and sated. As were the bitches, despite how unkempt they now appeared to be.

Robb decided he was both proud and jealous. Certainly, it would never be so simple for him to just walk into a room and bed every woman in it.

**]|||[**

_Sorry that it took so long to update. By now I'm sure you understand me when I said that this was unashamed Stark!wank. I'm sure you picked up on the little details of how swimmingly well things went for our King in the North. No Theon in the Iron Island. No marrying Jeyne Westerling. No letting Jaime Lannister go (his victory at Casterly Rock convinces Catelyn that he has a good chance of winning the war). _

_Also, here are people you should lend your readership to:_

_**Eterna1Solder**__ – Doesn't write ASOIAF fanfiction, but is adept at Mass Effect AUs. He likes the asari and is one of the few who doesn't exclusively write femslash with them. Asari Het for the win!_

_**MB18932**__ – Writes both ASOIAF and Mass Effect! And pretty good at both. Go read the stuff he/she writes. Go do it. You'll be happy. _

_**Spectre4hire**__ – His writing is good. I like what he writes. The literary work he produces is what I consider to be exceptional and beyond. I am redundant. Now go visit his page._

_**CobaltAC**__ – Going to be completely honest here, basically all he (she?) writes is Mass Effect smut. On the other hand, it is very very well written Mass Effect smut. The stuff that isn't smut is pretty good, too. Be warned though, he does have a (self-admitted) perverted mind for that kind of thing. If you have a problem with asari wincest, then perhaps you should not peruse his works. _

_**Starkworth**__ – Again, Mass Effect writer with an interest in asari. Above average in my opinion, and seems to enjoy ASOIAF since his current story (a First Contact AU) seems to be inspired by it. If you like Knights and ladies and blue-skinned, all-female bisexual aliens, he might be the guy for you. Go read his stuff._

_**Silver Phantom 2**__ – He/She wrote the "Parliament of Fowls" story where they have a kingsmoot to determine the next king of Westeros. It has not been updated since 2013, but it's still worth a read._


	3. Chapter 3

_And now for some more Stark-Wank…_

_Also, I'd like to make it known that some characters have been aged up, such as Myrcella Baratheon (Hill?). Robb is too good a man to bed little girls… that's just sick._

**]|||[**

The banners that flew the golden lion had been torn down. A northerner sat upon the Iron Throne and there was no one else left to challenge him. The Kingslayer had been executed not long after he had been brought down to Kings Landing from Riverrun. Margaery heard that some had advised Stark to send Jaime Lannister to the Wall as punishment, but the Wolf King would have none of it.

"That was a mercy not given to my father," Was his heated reply. "And to be a brother of the Night's Watch is not a duty to take lightly. Why should the man who threw my brother from a tower be sent there? Why should I trust him to keep his word? Why should I trust him to fight at my brother's side and not put a dagger in his back out of spite?"

Robb Stark took Jaime Lannister's head himself, like he had with all the others. Then he let the head sit on a pike above the castle walls for a single day before sending the man's remains west to Casterly Rock.

The following week was when the Stark King dealt with the rest of them, those who fought against him, those who fought with him, and those who took no side at all.

The Son of Winterfell was seventeen, perhaps eighteen. Margaery was not quite sure, but she knew that the Wolf King was barely a man grown. And yet she rested her eyes upon him, sitting high up on the mangled mess of blackened swords, and saw someone who was more of a man than many who sat alongside her to hear his royal decrees.

Dark red hair, almost brown, fell over hard Tully blue eyes in a wild mane of curls. His beard was full, yet trimmed, cut close to his stern face. A hard man he was, that Margaery Tyrell knew for certain. Hard, yes, but handsome as well, handsome in some queer way. The men of the southron kingdoms wore elegant clothing, garbed in silken and velvet cloaks and doublets, some perfuming themselves with exotic scents from across the Narrow Sea. They kept neatly trimmed moustaches, waxed and dyed like her father, Lord Mace.

Robb Stark was not at all like them. Robb wore dark leathers, a dark cloak, his shoulders lined with the pelt of a wolf. Ice, the massive greatsword of his ancestors, was laid across his lap, held in its wolfskin sheath. From his throne, he looked out over his subjects with watchful eyes. _Every inch a king. _

Tyrion Lannister, who fought for the defense of Kings Landing during Stannis' siege, was ultimately pardoned when Robb discovered it was he, along with Sandor Clegane, who defended his Lady sister's honor against the cruelty of Joffrey and the Queen Regent. As Tywin's last living son, The Rock fell to him. However, the lordship and wardenship of the Westerlands shifted to House Westerling.

Tommen and Myrcella were recognized as innocent of any wrongdoing, guilty of nothing but having Lannister blood. Many expected him to have them shipped off the Wall and to the Sept, respectively. So it came as quite the surprise, to Margaery especially, when King Robb legitimized them both as Lannisters. Shocked murmurs filled the throne room when the declaration left Robb's lips.

The Rose of Highgarden was surprised, yes… but not blind. She saw across the throne room, her eyes quickly finding the Kingslayer's bastards. She saw beautiful Myrcella, slender and golden-haired, wearing a red silk dress that exposed the upper slopes of her apple-sized breasts – much like Margaery's own garb. She saw how the Lannister girl gazed up at King Robb with her emerald doe-eyes. And suddenly the Young Wolf's choice was no longer so surprising.

He was no Mad King, Lady Tyrell knew that for certain. Nor was he cruel and twisted on the inside like Joffrey. Margaery could see it in his eyes, however hard and cold they were. But… there _was_ a madness in him. That was something she could _also_ see in his eyes. It was not a madness of the mind, that much she could tell.

No, what Margaery saw in the Young Wolf was a madness of the heart, a madness that made Robb's blood seethe and boil and made his bones ache. A _man's_ madness, one that gripped his entire being whenever his eyes fell upon a comely girl like Myrcella Lannister.

_The Young Wolf, they call him. A hungry wolf as well…_

**]|||[**

The Capitol was still being swarmed, more so than when it had been under siege. High Lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms were still pouring in through the city gates, coming to swear fealty to King Robb Stark.

He had come for justice, for the North and the Trident, for his sisters, Sansa and Arya. He came for vengeance, for Joffrey's head on a spike, for spilled blood in return for Lord Eddard and Jory and Septa Mordane and all the rest who had perished during the Whore Queen's coup.

Now he had seven kingdoms.

Robb did not know how to feel about that. He never wanted seven kingdoms, never wanted to sit upon a chair that pricked him in the arse more often than he could stand. Winterfell and the North, _that_ was his home, where he belonged. It was where he was meant to be, what he was born for.

But the Iron Throne?

It was his now. No one else was laying claim to it. No Lannisters were capable of standing against him, the whereabouts of Selyse and Shireen Baratheon were unknown, and the Dragon Queen was halfway around the world in _Qarth_.

Lannister, Tully, Arryn, Celtigar, Umber, Tyrell, they all bent the knee. Baratheon should have been a dead house, extinct due to the war, but Robb knew deep in his mind that he would never allow that. King Robert was one of his father's closest friends and from what Robb had been told, Robert Baratheon fathered many, many bastards all over the kingdoms. Mya Stone, Edric Storm, Arya's blacksmith protector, Robb thought to legitimize them, bestow upon the eldest male the rights to Storm's End, and the next would receive Dragonstone. Of course, they would need castellans and maesters, loyal men to help them rule, to give them counsel in their new position.

The throne, however, Robb kept. He was a hungry wolf, after all.

The next few weeks were a series of busy days, all going by in a blur. Lords swearing fealty, Lords coming to beg forgiveness, Lords coming to demand compensation for damage done to their lands, for the blood spilled during the war, for justice to be dealt to this house and that house.

The Frey host arrived first bringing the news of the Late Lord Walder's passing. Unfortunate, but Robb found that could not find it in himself to mourn the man who attempted to extort favor from his Liege Lord.

There was one good thing about the Frey's visit to the Capitol, though. Young Roslin, with her soft brown hair, wide hips and supple bosom, proved to be a delight.

The King stared more than he should have, something he later cursed himself for, but he had never seen a more beautiful Frey.

Roslin, Myrcella, and the Tyrell rose, Margaery. Kings Landing was not without its attractions, Robb pleasantly discovered. As much of a viper pit the Capitol was, it had turned out to be quite the hunting ground.

**]|||[**

"The Young Wolf needs a queen," Her father said. "And a Tyrell of Highgarden would suit someone of his stature far better than a Frey."

And so came to light Margaery's new purpose. She was to lure the new king away from the Frey girl. Joffrey had been easy to lure along, for while he was a sadistic and cruel boy, he was also a simple-minded one. _Gods, he could not even count past seven! _

Robb, on the other hand…

The King of Winter was a difficult man to read, all cold and solemn and bearded like men of the North were ought to be. _Gentle Mother, save us from that hard northern conviction. _And yet… Robb Stark proved to be quite the sight, sitting there on the Iron Throne as if it were made for him with his dark cloak lined with fur and his… _beast_ sitting beside him, waiting… watching with hungry eyes for any who dared to move against the King.

Margaery had not spoken to him then, not while he was before his court. That was too bold for a proper noble lady. _But perhaps he appreciates bold_, she thought. _It's no secret that he takes women to bed and that she-bear of his, Dacey Mormont, is certainly not the ideal of what a lady should be. And yet he spends some nights with her anyway. Myrcella as well, if the rumors are true._

But then Margaery thought of the teachings from her mother and grandmother. She remembered the words, "A woman should know when to strike, as well as when not to."

So Margaery hadn't spoken to him then, in front of all those people. No, the Rose of Highgarden found herself waiting patiently for the opportunity to sink her thorns deep. Her chance came much later, in the hour of sunset. King Robb retreated into the godswood as he often did, all alone save for his dutiful wolf. Margaery followed.

She had dressed herself for the occasion, taking measures to ensure that the king would most definitely remember her. Blue and grey silk, the colors of House Stark, wrapped snug around her soft form, exposing her shoulders as well as the top of her breasts, which were held up even higher by her tight bodice. She could breathe. Barely.

Her soft brown hair had been done up into a style that supposedly drew inspiration from both northern and southron styles. Her curls fell along both of her bare shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face well enough. Margaery hoped her ensemble was enough to vex the Stark boy.

She found him sitting on a bench, head bowed. He was murmuring a prayer while his wolf slept a short distance away. Above them, the stars had just started to emerge, twinkling bright. A breeze came then, sending faint whispers through the leaves and branches, echoes of the dead. The sun had set, but the Rose that stood before the King needed no such thing in order to blossom.

She took her chance.

"Forgive the intrusion, your grace." She spoke softly and sweetly, smiling with bright, warm eyes. He looked up at her then, his own eyes cold and blue. At first he was simply surprised to see her. Then he _saw_ her. The madness she saw in him some days past, it had returned, she could tell. She smiled wider, knowing her hold on him would grow strong. "I did not expect to find you here at this hour." She lied, gracefully moving closer, years of teaching working within her mind, remembering poise, posture, voice inflection.

Robb stood then, nodding at her, suddenly the King once more and not the young man she saw praying. "There's nothing to forgive, my lady. The godswood is yours as much as it is mine. I did not expect anyone else to be here, myself."

They began to walk together, under the stars. And soon after, they began to talk together.

"You worship the Old Gods, your grace? Through the weirwood trees, correct?"

"Indeed I do, my lady. There are no such trees south of the neck, I'm afraid. The Andals chopped them all down." Robb frowned, looking to the stars. "But I hope they can hear my prayers all the same."

"I'm sure they do, your grace. They must be. It seems your gods have never left your side since the Whispering Wood," Margaery hummed thoughtfully, slowly, slowly inching herself closer to the King as they walked until their arms grazed each other. Robb did not seem to mind, she noted with no small amount of satisfaction. She was a Tyrell. Her family was nothing if not adept at understanding the workings of the minds of men.

"That it would seem," The King replied, shooting her a look that she hoped was something more than just mild interest. "It appears that while I left my home behind, it refuses to leave me."

"Do you miss Winterfell, your grace?"

Robb slowed his pace near to a halt. "Aye, I miss Winterfell," He answered, as if suddenly tired. "I miss my home and my brothers, though I believe Baby Rickon misses me more, Gods protect him. I miss the snow and the cold, if you can believe that. I miss the grey walls and the brown dirt and the all-white skies. I miss my father…"

Margaery did not want to be the one to remind him of what he had lost.

"Your sisters are safe." She quickly reminded him, drawing him back from painful memories. She reached out, gently touching his arm. Bold, yes, but it was a woman's kind of bold. "Joffrey is gone, your grace. Lady Sansa will not have to fear him any longer. And I believe your younger sister is with your Lady mother at Riverrun."

Robb met her gaze then, smiling. Despite herself, Margaery felt a heat spread across her cheeks.

They spoke for a short time as the King escorted her to her solar, departing for his own shortly after.

It had not been much, but Margaery took comfort in that she had the King's attention.

_A single seed is all it takes, for the tiniest drop of water can make it grow strong._

**]|||[**

_Thank you for reading, folks! Much appreciated! _

_I'd also like you all to know that I've got a __**Mass Effect**__ story in the works that's somewhat in the same vein as this fic. It features OCs of mine, a human male and his two asari companions, in my little exploration of a polygamous relationship and how a man from the latest species to arrive on the galactic scene deals with the affections of two adventurous – and amorous – blue alien women. _

_So basically: humans are introduced with First Contact War, everyone is excited and afraid, new species looks like male asari, actual asari are intrigued by dangerous aliens, asari explore new alien culture, discover odd thing called human masculinity, asari are aroused. _

_Should be fun. Keep an eye out if you're interested. If not, then oh well._


	4. Chapter 4

_I apologize for the long wait, friends. More info regarding that in the notes at the bottom._

_Enjoy._

**]|||[**

Margaery Tyrell. The most beautiful rose to ever blossom from the bountiful vines of Highgarden. She was like a sculpture, perfectly formed. Curls of deep brown hair tumbled down to the small of her back and her eyes were soft and warm. She was slender, yet shapely, with a full bosom and wonderfully rounded hips, features that were lovingly accentuated by the silk dresses she almost always wore. And when she smiled, especially to Robb…

Lady Tyrell was sweet and kind, of course, and she acted as such, a true woman of the people, always stopping to speak to the commoners on her walks outside the Red Keep. But when she set her eyes on the King… there was always that glint in her eyes, mischievous and wicked.

_Gods, why does she toy with me?_ That question repeated in Robb's mind endlessly, even when he already knew the answer. The looks she gave him, the little smiles, the sway of her hips as she walked, moving that way just for him. It was maddening to the point where Robb's blood would boil and seethe in his veins, like it had on the battlefield. But at least there he could cut down Lannister soldiers, at least he could find some release.

Robb could scarcely believe it, but he actually yearned for battle, for spilled blood and the sweet feeling of sinking his blade into warm flesh. Among other things as well… Dacey Mormont was still in the Capitol, still loyal and true. Enough to slip out of whatever she happened to be wearing at a single word from Robb. But that would not be kingly of him. _And yet I took her to bed all the same when I was still just the King in the North, a rebel fighting for justice._

Robb was not stupid. Or at least he liked to believe that was not. The Tyrell girl wanted to be his queen, that much was obvious. And Robb knew in his bones that he would let her.

But Roslin Frey… Gentle Ros, just as sweet, just as kind, beautiful and delicate in such a way most women could only dream of being. A far cry from the rest of her House. She had a small nose that sniffled around any strong scent. She always looked at Robb with those big, shiny, adoring eyes, endless brown orbs much like Margaery's.

She was Robb's betrothed. He had sworn an oath. A Stark's Oath.

But he needed to secure the throne. Robb had the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands. Roughly half of the Seven Kingdoms. He needed to tip the scales in his favor. He needed the Reach. With the power of House Tyrell backing him in addition to all the rest, Robb could deter such ideas of treason from ever manifesting in the minds of his subjects.

_What would be more valuable_, he asked himself one night as he lay alone in bed. _The support of the Tyrells or that of the Freys of the Crossing?_

No matter his decision, he would be dealing a great insult to a noble lord. Lord Mace brought his daughter with him to the Capitol for a reason and to deny him would be as much an insult as a slap to the face, such as southron lords acted. Better for Robb to have a slight against a dead man than a live one who could help him.

…_Even if that same lord declared for Joffrey before I ended his wretched life._

**]|||[**

The wedding went by like a blur. There was music, there was food and drink, there was dancing… and there was King Robb Stark. Tall, imposing, shaped by war… and muscled in the way Stark men were known for. Dark auburn curls fell over his eyes, blue like the sky, a feature more Tully than Stark. In fact, he took after his mother more than his father, it seemed. It had been said Lord Eddard's bastard son resembled him more than his trueborn son. But Robb was a Stark, of that there was no doubt.

He had spent the entire wedding string at Margaery like a piece of meat, hungry eyes devouring her… our stripping her bare. Lady Margaery could not tell. All the same, she was a Tyrell of Highgarden no matter what color the cloak that Robb had wrapped around her shoulders was, so she smiled and laughed with the rest of the guests, noble lord and ladies who came from all around to witness their King take his first wife. She sat next to her new husband, all grace and poise, and hoped, _prayed_ to every god out there, that no one saw her shivering under the Young Wolf's gaze.

At the end of the feast, there had been no bedding ceremony. Margaery thanked the gods for that, having spent far too long with her handmaidens in creating her new dress just to have it all torn to ribbons by drunken men. No, Robb had simply carried her off himself, like some Northman warrior making off with his prize, his spoils of war. Unorthodox, yes, but Margaery heard people cheering behind them. After all, the King had the Rose of Highgarden in his arms. That was certainly something to celebrate. "The most beautiful rose in all the Seven Kingdoms", her mother had told her once, "Do not forget that, child."

The instant the doors to their bedchambers closed behind them, the Wolf was upon her. His hot breath at her neck made her shiver, and the lips and tongue that followed made her moan. Soft and quiet sounds they were, but they only urged the Wolf-King on. Roaming hands, strong and firm and gentle, they caressed her body, hips and breasts filling impatient paws. His mouth was at her neck, kissing and licking, teeth nipping at her skin playfully. _The Wolf is tasting me_, Margaery thought, _to see if I am truly as sweet as my family claims_.

Then his mouth fell upon hers, lips colliding eagerly and clumsily, and yet Margaery found herself melting in his arms. His kisses were fierce and hungry, relentless as he was on the battlefield, starving her lungs of precious air, kissing her until her cheeks were flushed red and her lips were swollen and puffy. When he finally pulled away, Margaery gasped, panting, blushing, and as wet as a lady could be before becoming some wanton whore.

He pressed her against the wall, his arms on either side, trapping her. Then he kissed her again, his hands moving to liberate her body from its silk prison. She moaned into his mouth as he pulled and tugged at the laces of her bodice, gasping as a hand dipped down to cup her breast. Robb, her husband and king, said not a word as he began to strip her body bare, tugging hard on her skirts until they pooled around her ankles. She was wearing little now, near everything exposed to him.

The way he looked at her then, like a wolf at his prey, it struck something within her, something primal and feral. She met his gaze, staring up into furious blue eyes. _He could kill me_, she suddenly knew, _he could kill me right now if he wanted to_. She didn't know why she thought that, or why she seemed to find the idea exciting.

So, she kissed him, pressing her body flush against his, a sweet surrender she knew he would accept. And he did. The feeling of his hands on her, pawing at her taut body like some beast, thinking of all the things he could do to her now that she was his, it made Margaery near delirious. The tickle of his beard, the taste of his lips, his tongue, the Rose was certain that she was dreaming. When she finally pulled away, she still had his lower lip caught between her teeth. Robb chuckled at that, a deep rumble in his chest making her press closer to him.

Then he pushed – or shoved – her onto the bed. Margaery squeaked at the rough action, bouncing on the mattress, pulling her slender legs closer to her form, almost like a sort of defense against the Wolf standing over her. But it mattered little once he pounced upon her. His lips met her neck once more, his firm body trapping her against the bed.

Then he started south – much like he had done at the start of the war – his mouth moving from her neck to her collarbone, lower and lower still until one of her supple breasts filled his mouth. Margaery moaned, arching her back as his tongue lavished a nipple, suckling on it hungrily, tasting her flesh. The other breast was tended to by a calloused hand, attentive and as equally greedy as his mouth was. His thumb brushed over her hardened nipple, eliciting a hiss from the Tryell girl.

Next, he descended even lower. Margaery never thought Robb Stark to be the kind of man to perform the Lord's Kiss on a woman – in truth, she had never thought of Northerners in such a regard at all. But her new husband had quickly – and _thoroughly_ – changed her mind. Margaery had always been a curious girl, and her ever faithful handmaiden had done a wonderful job of making sure she was no stranger to the Lord's Kiss. But Robb Stark's tongue, she discovered, had turned out to be far more pleasing than any woman's. He was eager, enthusiastic, lapping at her sweet honey-dew until her throat was sore from screaming his name. He tasted her and then drank from her, all while she was crying and wailing, writhing in his arms while his tongue snaked inside her.

When he drew his lips and tongue from her, she thought that might have been the end. She was exhausted, breathless, cheeks flushed like some starry-eyed girl and that had all been from only his tongue. She should have known better, she realized, as the Young Wolf turned her over onto her belly, his knees spreading her legs apart as he prepared to claim his wife. She found, to her surprise, that she wanted him to do it.

There was a hunger in the way he fucked her, a yearning of a sort, like he could simply not get enough of her no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he thrust into her. Like a rutting wolf, really. Her fingers gripped the sheets, nails tearing into the fabric, and she pushed back against his thrusts, trying to get him further, _deeper_.

It was then that Margaery knew that her husband, her king, was no ordinary man. He was a Stark of Winterfell, a man with the blood of the First Men in his veins. The Wolfsblood.

She was a Tyrell of Highgarden, a true rose. Roses had thorns, yes, but what good were thorns against a wolf's hide? Margaery knew enough history to know what happened when Kings grew bored with the women they married. Robb was nothing like those men, she knew, honorable and just as Stark men were. But still she feared, even as her husband was above her, inside her.

After he spent himself inside her – and she spent herself on his manhood, _twice_ – they gave themselves to their dreams, drifting to sleep in each other's arms for the first time as husband and wife, king and queen. But before her eyes fluttered shut for the night, Margaery Stark resolved that her husband would never grow bored of her…

**]|||[**

_Again, sorry for the schedule slip. My own fault for being too lazy to type up the stuff I've already got handwritten. _

_For those of you who are uninformed, my new Mass Effect story, "__**A Warm Welcome**__" is already put up. A little thing about a human man entering into a polygamous relationship with two asari and an exploration of that relationship on a personal level – in addition to the smut of course. So feel free to check that out when you get the chance. That is, if you like Mass Effect of course. _

_In other news, I've come to realize that I very much enjoy the DC animated universe thanks to the lovely plethora of shows available on Netflix such as __**Justice League**__, __**Justice League: Unlimited**__, __**Young Justice**__, __**Batman Beyond**__, __**Batman: The Brave and the Bold**__, and __**Green Lantern: The Animated Series**__. All are great shows which you should definitely watch. Expect some more stories in the future about them. _

_Watch out, readers. I'm spreading my wings!_

_Thank you for reading!_


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